Tainted Love
by Barkinglot
Summary: Coming to terms with his feelings, England made a decision. The night was now different. Would America sort out his own feelings before it was too late?


**Title:** Tainted Love

**Author:** Barkinglot

**Genre: **Angst. Drama. Romance.

**Pairing:** America/England

**Rating/Warnings:** Mature just to be safe. Nothing explicit. /fail

**Summary:** Coming to terms with his feelings, England made a decision. The night was now different. Would America sort out his own feelings before it's too late?

Filling for a Kink Meme request known as provoking America, here is the link to original request: hetalia-kink. livejournal. com/ 15068. html? thread= 40606940#t40606940

The first attempt to the angst genre...

* * *

**Prologue **

The first time England did it, it was an accident. He was drunk. And being drunk as hell, he was somehow unwilling to push off the man on top of him, especially when the groping and touching and kissing was warm and caring. It'd felt _so_ _good_ that England had somehow, someway tricked himself into believing he was actually being wanted after all those years—_decades_—of being left undesired.

When morning came and he woke up with a headache, sore all over, and in a cheap hotel room to an empty bed, England remembered exactly why he should quit drinking. He hated himself for it, but there was some part of him that didn't care in the slightest. Anyway, why should he? He was a thousand years old and they were both grownups, and it's not like it'd _hurt_. What was there to lose when he was in no relationship and happened to share a night with one of his citizens?

Nothing at all.

So England carried on with his life. He didn't see any reason not to, and he knew that despite the nagging feelings of guilt mixed with regret, he would grow past what happened. He had been living a life too long to be forever stoic. Sometimes he missed a step; that's all. There was nothing to feel sorry for, except...

It got harder, if only a little bit, to look at America in the eyes.

And England was angry.

He wasn't even sure what he was angry about - at himself, or his _things_ for America, or at America himself. Because on the night when England decided to go drinking, he had been waiting, _expecting_ America to show up at his house. It wasn't like the git had had an appointment or anything; it's just...he had been coming three weekends in a row, and England had thought that perhaps, well maybe—

It proved that England was a fool for expecting the impossible. He should have known better since it wasn't the first time this had happened. Sometimes America would call England if he didn't want to watch certain movies alone, or because he'd wanted to show England his latest invention; sometimes he would simply come to England's house and make fun of whatever he ate and touched and destroyed.

What's worse was that England found himself starting to get used to it. To all of America's sudden whims. America did all those things out of plain boredom, and England was so _happy_ he got caught up in the simple fact that _America is here_.

America never promised anything. America just came and went whenever he pleased. It was as if he had _known_ that England would be alone at home whenever he landed at Heathrow. _Everybody knows you don't have many friends and prefer to stay home doing embroidery, or gardening, _America had said. _It's not a secret!_ _At least you have the hero to keep you company now, old man._

England crooked a bitter smile against the rim of his half empty glass. The woman who had brought him the drink gave him a questioning look, but England just shook his head and hoped that his fourth whiskey would wipe out everything about the insufferable brat in his mind. Even just for one night.

Too bad England was awful at hoping.

* * *

It was France who made America notice something was off.

"Have you seen _Angleterre_ lately?" asked France when he came to the states for business. He shook it off when he saw America's blank expression. "I guess not then. Never mind."

America frowned. "What's about England? He was just peachy last time I saw him," and laughed, "y'know, his grumpy usual self?"

France looked he was about to sigh, "Of course."

They didn't talk about anything but business after that.

It wasn't until after they'd sorted everything out did America feel surprised, because France had asked him to dinner. How often did that happen, it was _France_ for god's sake. "I'm not up for the snail though," America told him first. France only smiled.

At a local restaurant, they were almost through main course when France queried, "Are you sure he is fine?"

It took America several moments to swallow and understand what he meant, "Jeez France, what's this? You suddenly _care_ about England? I thought you hated each other."

"I do. I hate him because he tends to involve me in his fits," he looked at the glass of wine he was swirling, "Precaution on my part is, well, reasonable." He stopped. And just when America thought he had finished, France spoke, more quietly, "But I'm not so sure I want to stay out this time."

"What do you mean you're not sure? You just said you hate him involving you in. . .whatever he does." said America, shoving food into his mouth.

"Not when he can be taken advantage of."

America looked up from his food and put down his knife and fork, eyes narrowing. "What advantage?"

France only smiled against the rim of his wineglass and for some reason it annoyed America, who was beginning to understand exactly why England hates France. "If you've got something to say, spill it out France. I don't have all day."

"So you are capable of reading the atmosphere, _Amérique,_" France smiled fondly, and went on without idle. "I believe _Angleterre_ now seeks comfort from his own people."

America stared.

"And yet, haven't we all once in a while," France chuckled, "If you ask me, I'll say it's about time he acts up to his title."

America was so close asking _what title_ but he saw the look France was giving him. It was tricky and sly and his eyes saying, _I know you remember Amérique, try harder_. America ignored it. "So England's dating his citizen. Big deal."

"Ah, I see," but he seemed hardly surprised, "They're just people, and people last not a hundred year, _exacte?_"

America found his patience running thin. "What's your point, France?"

"England," France paused, taking a sip of his wine, "has his flaws. He tries covering it up with bitterness and indifference, like he couldn't care less. But I know he does. And I'm sure other countries do as well." He stood up, putting the glass and bills down, "The question is, how long will it take for them to find out like I did?"

Before France turned to leave, America heard him say something along the lines of_ and countries last hundreds of years._

All of a sudden America had this unexplainable urge to see England, safe and secure and carefree, _unchanged_ in the garden he'd spent so much time looking after.

* * *

America enjoyed spending time with England. Okay, that might not be the best way to put it, but what else could he say? It's not like he could go _England I happen to enjoy you sputtering._ Though after all these times England probably had known already, still it's not like America would, you know, _actually_ tell him.

He would sometimes drop by, and England would be at home and then they would happen to spend the weekends together. Or for whatever reason England would come to the states, and America would insult those scones he brought, and they'd end up watching movies together with popcorn.

Either way, it might seem improvised, but it's _natural_, and America kind of liked it that way. Because it's not like England was going anywhere; when he did, most of the time it was America dragging him to some place for fun. So he enjoyed England's company, and England didn't complain. Well fine maybe he did but when was it that England didn't?

Things got complicated when it came to England. So America would rather something like spending weekends together stay the way it was. Simple and in the moment.

Why should it change now? After that brief exchange with France, America tried brushing those words away, for he knew it's none of his business. He's old enough to understand what dating meant. There's nothing wrong with it, be it with other countries or with citizens.

But it bothered him. America was not sure why. Maybe it was France, who had known England for a very long time, and who could, by nature, make everything sound so goddamn suggestive. It seemed pretty reasonable to blame it on France.

And yet when the weekend came, America found it just a bitty harder to pin it on France. He couldn't even blame it on the time zone. Because it's plain as in the broad day light that England wasn't home.

America had absolutely _no _idea where the hell England was four o'clock in the Sunday morning.

And he found himself hating the fact that he didn't.

* * *

The next time America saw England, they were at a week-long convention. There were other nations present as well, and England seemed so far the same. He lectured America about unpunctuality, crooked tie, and how America was not supposed to eat donuts, hamburgers, _chips_, or anything at all during the conference hour.

He looked generally pissed when America talked back, "Are your scones allowed then? Not that I wanna eat them, but they're kinda great for choking people."

England's glare never lost its intimidation.

By the time the day ended, America was sure that whatever France had said, it had to be wrong.

"Hey England, wanna go for a bite?" He asked as he approached England, who was putting papers neatly away into his briefcase.

"If it's to a store that sales nothing but desserts and coffee, I'll pass." England clicked his briefcase closed and started to walk away, not even looking at him.

"Are you sure? 'cause I don't think you can tell the difference in whatever you eat," America added, "but if you really don't want to, we can go for something-"

England turned around. "Sorry America. I'll take a rain check."

"Okay then," America said, "Don't be late tomorrow!"

"Try telling that to yourself, git."

Then England was out of the door.

Throughout the conference that went on for a whole week, England's suit was as crisp as always, and he was early to every scene, yet never once had he taken America's offer.

Canada came to his room near the end of the week, looking worried, "America, did something happen between you and England?"

"No. Why d'you ask?" America answered while he flicked through the hotel TV channels by the remote, "The man's just busy."

Canada blocked the TV and yanked the remote out of his hand. America's protest went ignored.

"Are you sure?" Canada asked, tone grave and serious, "Are you really sure that he's just busy? Nothing else?"

America was confused. From the way Canada sighed, he seemed really worried. But he hadn't done anything, not as far as he could remember at least. If anyone asked him, America would say that England always got mad over the weirdest stuff, and it's not like America could read mind. Heck, if he could, it'd be hella fun around England.

"What made you ask, Matt? You know what England is like."

The control he robbed from America was now feeding the bear in his arms, and Canada didn't even notice, "Then I hope I was wrong..."

"You bet." America chuckled.

"America, I know you sometimes make fun of how I stayed under England's colour for too long, or that even now I'm still part of the Commonwealth," he paused and looked at America in the eyes, "but that also means sometimes I see _things_ you don't."

America frowned. He wasn't sure he'd like what Canada was about to say, "I know England as much as you."

A bitter smile found its way to Canada's face. "You didn't even ask me what those things are. You're always like this when it concerns England. Back when we were little-"

"No Matt, not again," America almost groaned. He was really not in the mood for another shotgun rant from Canada, "We've been through this, like what? Six billion times?"

"You always-" said Canada, "you always had to have England's whole attention, I mean, maybe everyone else's attention as well after you grew up, but when it's England you're sometimes...I don't know, Al," he sighed.

Okay this was slightly different from what he had thought, but America was right about not liking it, whatever it was about. "Did England say something to you?"

His voice came out lower than he had intended, but Canada didn't back down. "Does it matter?"

"Yes it does_._ 'cause if he didn't, I simply don't see the point," answered America, straightening up, "Look, England complains about everyone and everything. Especially about me, maybe. Like he's getting paid for it, and that's just, well, y'know,_ England_."

Canada spoke after a long stretch of silence. "America, let me ask you a hypothetical question, if," he phrased carefully, "it's just hypothetical. What_ if_ England is not busy or having some time to himself, but just," he searched for words, "going out?"

"Going out for what?"

"I don't know. Seeing people. Making new friends."

"England? Making new friends? Seriously Mattie?"

"I said _hypothetically_, eh."

"No way."

"Why are you so sure, Al?"

It was a genuine question. Therefore America said the first thing that came to his mind, "He is England."

Canada just stared at him. And after a very tense moment, he shook his head, "Call him, America. Call him."

Twenty minutes after Canada left the room, America had finally done changing channels without a remote, and was just about to pick up the phone. He didn't like being told what to do, and that included things between him and England. Why couldn't people just...stay out of it? He knew his brother worried about him. And England, probably. Because his bro was nice like that… But this time America had most certainly done nothing wrong. If anything, England was probably having some Splendid-Isolation autistic time, and why was everyone so damn concerned now?

_Every time you did something stupid, I get blamed. Those complaints should be filed under your name America. I'm not your front desk of customer service._ America smiled a little. Now _who_ was the front desk, he mused. He didn't remember what he had said to get back at England. It didn't matter, because he knew he had outspoke England then.

He dialed to England's room first.

It rang off.

America tried his cell.

One, two, three ring, and the line was dead.

He dialed again, and this time there's no ringing but _the number you dialed is not accessible at the moment._

* * *

America wondered why he was here. Standing in the London suburban, he could already tell England wasn't home. The house stood in the darkening evening; no light from any window. He had thought about calling England on the taxi he took after landing. America wasn't sure what had stopped him. He guessed he wanted it to be a surprise.

The trees and bushes swayed, and America walked across the street. He was already here and could at least come in. He fished out the spare key from under a giant rose bush. It occurred to him, after all his visiting England, this was the first time he had to use that key.

The cold metal, covered in rust and moss, felt ancient in his hand.

America opened the door, and as he made his way to the living room, he knew, or more like sensed, that the house was really empty. The light from the street lamp pressed a silhouette of trees on the wall. Dead silence.

He remembered the last time he was here, they had dinner together.

For a few seconds he just stood there.

America pulled out his phone. The screen was almost too bright in the dark. He thumbed through his contact list, chose a set of numbers, and pressed the button.

Before the line was connected, it hit him that this was why he had hesitated. He'd known what would happened. _No answer._ The thought fled America as the first note rang in. And it kept on ringing.

Just when America was about to hang up, someone picked up.

"'ello," came a tired voice.

"England?" he asked tentatively.

A sigh. "Yes, what is it, America?"

Something was not right. "Where are you? What took you so long?"

A pause. Then England said after a deep breath, "I couldn't find my phone."

"And you found it where?"

Silence. "...what do you want, America?"

"I'm in your house and since you're not home, I led myself in." America explained. He was far beyond breaking and entering, and he wanted to make sure England knew it.

"Hmm, brilliant." Shifting sounds at the other end of the line. "Don't forget to lock the door when you leave."

America frowned. Now he knew what the jarring feelings were. England sounded frigging _hoarse_. And exhausted. "Where are you England? Are you drunk?"

He could hear the smile in England's tone. Together with something bitter. "Not really. I know how to get home. Thanks for asking anyway ."

"Hey, England," America swallowed. He wanted to ask _I__s it real that you're dating your citizen?_ but then in order to explain he'd have to bring up the name France, which was never a good idea around England. And America didn't want to talk about this over the phone.

So instead he said, "Don't get too wasted. You know how you babble out silly things when you're drunk."

"Of course, America." England answered like he wasn't listening, "Goodbye."

He hung up before America had a chance to say anything.

* * *

"Are you okay, America-san?" Japan asked with concerns clear in his eyes.

"Yeah I'm fine." America answered quickly. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Should we take a break?"

"No it's okay. We're almost done anyway."

Moments later, when America was making plane with some paper he had doodled on earlier, Japan spoke.

"The weather is really nice here. My house tends to be too hot in summer. Ah, and if I remember correctly, it's time for the rose blossom."

It turned out France had told him the truth. America tried, and, like every other time today, failed to redirect his thoughts. England was really dating someone; it had to be that. What else could explain all these sudden absence and never answered phone calls?

America knew he should feel happy for England, considering how hard it was to befriend said Brit. It was fine as long as that was what England wanted. Though sometimes it was too much.

It felt like something was being taken away from him. All those weekends, nights.

Times that belonged to _him and England._

At first America was shocked. He could not believe himself when he caught some part of him wishing for it to _go away_, for everything to fall back to normal again. _It's not a phase!_ He berated himself angrily. _And how could you even think that way?_ He tried to picture England's reaction when years passed and that someone left him. It made America _sick_.

Because he knew how bad England was at saying goodbye to the people he loved.

He knew that because he'd _proven_ it. In his own case.

Japan said something that snapped America out of stupor, "England-san doesn't seem too well these days, I wonder why."

"Maybe it's the summer," America was surprised by how bitter it sounded, "y'know, July?"

"I doubt it though," said Japan thoughtfully. "It's been weeks."

America sat up from his slumped position, "Really? He wasn't sick last time I checked. The economy looks fine."

"That's not what I mean. He looks..." Japan pondered, "I'm not sure. Something is bothering him, it seems."

"But how?" America asked with a frown. He was concerned about England; he really was. If England was happy with someone, that's great. He merely wanted to be sure that everything was fine.

But what Japan just said was definitely not the case. England was not happy. America had thought that all those time England spent without him must have mattered, or _meant_ something, and yet England was not happy, which meant America had stepped away for nothing.

Was that it? All for nothing?

"I can't say," said Japan, who now appeared to be genuinely concerned, "Do you have any clues, America-san?"

When America thought about it, there were definitely clues. Little things like England's eyes stayed on him less and for a shorter times, that the hotel room he was assigned seemed untenanted.

And that he was nowhere to be found once the meeting was over.

But all these were explainable if England went steady. So America shook them off, "I dunno."

"I know it might not be my place to speak, but England-san, just like you, America-san, is my friend," Japan seemed rather reminiscent, " I was really impressed, and very happy when we first became friends."

America realized it wasn't him Japan was talking about.

"But I digress," Japan shook off the nostalgia, replacing it with a straight look, "What I want to say is, England-san, though a very nice man he is, has a tendency towards pessimism, especially when it concerns people he cares."

Again there was that look, but this time America did not notice, for himself too saw an image of the long gone days in his mind.

"I know that," said America. He would never tell anyone what he'd just remembered.

Japan nodded, "It's just... England-san tends to keep things to himself. I'm worried."

"He's England. He'll be fine." America assured, "And you can count on me to save the day if he's not."

Japan smiled. "It's a relief he has someone like you, America-san."

"What can I say? I'm the hero. I'll save everyone, even England." America blurted out, ignoring the heat over his cheeks.

_(There, under the bright sun and broad sky, among the long grass, and in the middle of nowhere, England smiled, his hand reaching out and tears could still be seen in the corner of his eyes._

Just England. That's enough for me, _he said laughing.)_

He's done getting the second handed information. _I need to hear it from England. _America decided.

* * *

"This is the voicemail of Arthur Kirkland. Please leave your message at the tone."

_Hey England. It's me. I know you're coming to the states for the meeting next Thursday. 'Cause I'm a generous host, you can stay at my place. Don't bring those nuclear wastes on board; I don't wanna get mauled by those Homeland Security guys. Call me when you get here and I'll go pick you up. _

Pause.

_Just call me when you get here._

* * *

There was really no use trying to stay angry with America. England had been down that road for so many times he'd lost count. He knew where it was going, but could not, in all his might, stop it from happening. Well, that was the very definition of America, wasn't it?

The anger turned into agitation, that turned into indignation, that soon turned into a consumption, which in the end became pointless, empty and meaningless, blanketed by the overwhelming sense of insignificance. Just like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.

Yet this time England couldn't keep it up anymore.

He only came to the realisation after he started to spend the night away from home. How very ironic.

When he was lying there, tangled in a pile of dirty sheets, bathed in the coital heat and utterly, thoroughly debauched, England realized he never wanted this. Why must he find out? Why couldn't he just be satisfied with whatever they were? Why couldn't he just enjoy the time America was present, and live with it when he was not? But no, of course he had to long for more, had to ruin it all, to raise his hope and to see it dashed and still—

His treacherous heart ached, while England came to the conclusion that no, this would not go anywhere, and no one should ever know about it, _especially_ America. Because what's the point?

America was just being himself all along; it was England who bothered with hope.

* * *

It wasn't like that America didn't have much chance seeing England. In fact, America had, despite the pond between them, excellent chance. England always gave out this _no nonsense_ aura, when he was there at meetings with America's boss, and of course America would be there as well, taking it upon himself to throw England off his serious business.

It's just, he wasn't very keen on formality, and watching the way England behaved, as if America were some kind of foreign issue that needed to be dealt with, was well, weird. It made America uncomfortable.

He'd rather England swore, seethed, or yelled at him, than being all detached and alienated.

On rare occasion, England's expression eased. The frown between his brows loosened, his eyes softened, and the thin line of his lips curved. America liked seeing England smile. It was light, small, and always, much to America's protest, gone in an instant.

It was few and far between, but America had begun to notice the most likely time for him to see that smile was at the airport. Every once in a while, when England caught him in the eyes among the crowds.

He would see England's whole face lit up, which usually got quickly toned down to make room for a hasty, haphazard scowl. Then America would wave, wedge through, and laugh when he got to England. They would hug, because America insisted. He wasn't going to take any objection; still England tried.

_You're crashing me,_ England would say, and America would totally call that an excuse just to get him to let go, which he refuse to do of course.

But when America, just as he'd said, went to pick England up on the next Thursday, this was not how it went. Well, in some way it was, except the hugging part. America reached out, and England _flinched_.

"England, what's wrong?"

"It's- it's nothing."

That's all America needed to hear. Next second, he had England in an embrace, and everything seemed alright again, until America noticed that England remained terribly still in his arms. He didn't know where he'd done wrong; nothing was much different as to before. America decided, in a brief second, that he must be pressing too tight, like England had always been trying to tell him. So he let go, and just before his arms dislodged, America thought he felt England hugging back.

Now they were completely apart, and America said, "Hey," but England had tilt his head to the other side, leaving America totally at loss of what was going on.

"England?"

"I'm fine. It's just the long flight," spoke England in a quiet voice, "Let's go."

It was a lie; England was not fine. He barely talked throughout most of the ride. Something hard and cold lingered in the air between them. America hated that England kept saying nothing was wrong, when obviously something was. Therefore, he pulled over and turned to face England, who turned away when their eyes met.

"Don't," America tried, "England, look at me."

"What?" England snapped.

"Clearly, you're not fine;" said America, "just tell me what's bothering you."

Now England looked at him, "Why don't you tell me, America? You seem to know it better than I do."

It was times like this that America hated the most. Count on England to make anything and everything difficult. "Either you start talking right now, or quit sulking."

"I'm not sulking."

They stared at each other in silence. Then without another word, America turned his eyes back to the road, and started driving.

He wondered whether it was a bad idea inviting England over. America could not fix things he did not know, and England being like that didn't help. Though he was pretty much annoyed, America didn't feel like starting a fight with England. He had not asked England to stay just so they could fight; he'd asked him to stay, because America wanted him to stay. He wanted England to be here, and after all the absence bordering on evasion, America thought he deserved that.

"Listen, England," meaning to solve this as soon as possible, America said when they were still sitting in the car, stopping at the driveway of his house, "if it's something I did, I didn't mean to upset you, I really didn't. It's just- can't you at least tell me what this is all about?"

The low humming of the engine was the only sound in the car. There was no one on the street; it was dinner time. A patch of street light sat on England's cheek bone. For a moment America thought he wasn't going to answer.

"What makes you think it's you?" asked England, while staring America straight in the eyes, which was how America knew he wasn't being sarcastic.

"You were happy to see me," answered America, trying to read England's expression in the dim light, "Then you're, uh, not. So I guess it must be something I did."

England just looked at him. It was intense, and full of so many things, all mingled together, that America could not name.

Then England shook his head; his lips quirked up, "It's something I'm working on. It's okay. I can manage."

It was there, and gone really, really fast. America barely caught it. It wasn't the kind of smile America saw earlier. Actually, it was not the kind of smile he wanted to see on England _at all_. It was unsettling; it was _sad_. Something America had never thought that would go along with a smile, and yet there it was, even for just a millisecond.

America, who basically acted on his instincts at the moment, reached forward, and this time England held on to him, regardless of the limited space in the front seats of a car. For several minutes, they simply stayed that way.

In that short-lived stillness, America wanted nothing but to have England tell him what's happening. It did not, however, work like that. He wanted England to tell him because England wanted to, not because of anything else.

_Japan was right._ America thought belatedly. _I should have found out before Matt told me. _Maybe, just maybe, there really was something Canada knew that America did not. But he would have known if England had stayed around, that much America was sure. Because if there was anyone that England would confide in, it should be him. Not Canada, not Japan, and most certainly not France, but him.

Just _America._

* * *

America watched England thread through papers and reports. There were just the two of them in the conference room; it was more a preparation for the upcoming meeting than an actual one. America had finished running his presentation, and was waiting for England to go through his papers again.

"You forgot to mention this paragraph," said England.

"I won't at the meeting."

England looked up with an arched eyebrow.

"I said- fine," America sighed, taking the document back.

He didn't get to bring anything up yesterday. After they got in, England went straight to the guest room, and only answered America with_ I had it on the flight,_ when asked about the dinner. America knew England was an old man who got tired easily, so he understood, really. He had thought about watching horror movies, but something stopped him. Somehow he doubted England would let him into his bed. It must have to do with the whole dating thing.

Then America knew why it'd been bothering him. It always came flashing out, like some kind of annoying pop-up ads stuck on his mental screen.

Suddenly America wanted to tell whoever England's date was to _back off_, because he and England had been doing just fine before they came along, and well, guess what? All they were capable of was taking England away from America, while making England smile in that godawful way he was never, _ever_ supposed to.

America would never do that. America could make England happy.

The fact that England seemed much better now just proved it.

"America! Are you listening?"

America blinked, "Huh?"

"You are spacing out," said an irritable England.

"I was thinking about you," true, but it was also an excuse, something just to get him away from the verbal whack.

England's eyes went wide.

Then America must get caught, for England's face darkened dangerously, "Now don't be foolish, you twat. _Focus._"

Though he probably deserved it in the first place, America was a little offbeat with the sudden change of the tone. He quickly buried his nose in the pages.

Hours later, after America assured England he wasn't going to miss out anything at the actual meeting for the countless time, they finally called it a day. America had plans.

"You're going to dinner with me," added America when England opened his mouth, "No but. I don't wanna hear any objection. You're coming with me."

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon," protest England, sputtering, "It's teatime!"

"Then we'll go teatime."

England looked at him as if he was out of his mind, "What?"

America just dragged him out of the building, and even when they're already in America's car, England was still dwelling on it, "If you so much dare to manhandle me ever again, America, I promise-"

"Yeah, yeah," eyes on the road, America wasn't listening, "that's not what you'll be saying when you get your fix."

England seemed to argue in his peripheral vision, but America was too busy running a red light to pay attention. He didn't realize he was tuning England out until silence fell. America glanced, and found England looking at him.

"What?" Not knowing how to react, America asked. It came out harsher than he intended.

"You can tell me now, America," said England, "what this is about."

America knew that tone. It was dripping with distrust; the _I-know-this-is-not-what-you-say-it-is-so-just-cut-the-shit_ tone. America hit the brake, hard. Behind them, some car blasted its horn.

England, balancing himself, yelled, "Bloody hell! What were you thinking America!"

They were lucky that there weren't many cars on the road, but now that was least of America's concerns. He must seem to be out of his usual self, for England's shout wavered just at the look of him.


End file.
